Unrequited
by Leraiv Snape
Summary: At Minerva McGonagall's funeral, Ron Weasley reflects on the fact that his wife was never really his. RWHG and SSHG.
1. Funeral Reflections

Disclaimer: Not mine, respects paid.

A/N: So this plot bunny bounced around in my head pretty much ever since the release of DH last summer and I have finally managed to spit it all out on paper. This piece is compliant with the DH epilogue, but not with the rest of the events of the book. It is a three-chapter short fic that is already completed, so it should be posted in its entirety over the next couple of weeks.

This is written in part because in the HG-SS genre, we tend to bash Ron a great deal. I cannot deny that this portrayal is somewhat deserved and serves many useful purposes, and often gives us some hilarious results, but I wanted to try my hand at a more mature character – the kind of man who comes from a boy willing to sacrifice himself on a gigantic chessboard at the vast old age of twelve. Although this is HG-SS, it's almost all written from Ron's POV of their relationship.

Please enjoy!

Funeral Memories

_August, 2052_

The movement behind Ron Weasley's shoulder was betrayed in his peripheral vision by a rough-looking cane sinking slightly into the freshly-shifted dirt. He didn't have to turn his head to know that it was his lifelong best friend, leaning heavily on the stick gained almost two decades prior in his final ambush of Rodolphus Lestrange. The last of Voldemort's supporters, running and hiding for more than thirty years, had killed three Aurors and severely wounded another five before Albus Potter had managed to subdue him with the _Avada Kedavra_. Harry's relief that his son had remained cool in the fight and powerful enough to bring down the wily old wizard had been tempered by the grief that the pride of his heart had the ability and the will to do what his father had never successfully done: cast an Unforgivable Curse. Decorated with an Order of Merlin, Second Class, for services to the wizarding world, the Ministry had ensured that Al Potter would be remembered as a hero. But his father couldn't forget the hardness that had taken residence in those green eyes so like his own after that encounter. Though Mungo's could have healed the Head of Magical Law Enforcement completely, Harry had opted for the staff.

"_A reminder of my own fallibility,"_ he had always said when asked, and only a few people knew that he meant closer to home as well as in the field.

"Where's Hermione, mate?" the voice asked. Same pitch, same intonation. It was lower from age, inhalation of smoke in the line of duty and screaming curses in the din of battle, but sometimes when Ron heard it he had to turn, to confirm that Harry's hair was now more silver than black, to see the lines drawing around the mouth that betrayed his age. The eyes never would. They were past their seventieth birthdays, and Harry Potter's brilliant green eyes remained exactly as bright and unclouded as they had been when he had set foot on the Hogwart's Express for the first time. They had grown sharper, narrowed by suspicion and war, not duller, and sometimes their incisiveness rivaled that of the long-dead Dumbledore's.

"Visiting another grave," Ron answered quietly, blue eyes remaining locked on the handsome headstone before them. The other guests – teachers, students, members of the Ministry, family, nearly seven hundred in all – had already migrated towards the Great Hall for the wake, but Ron felt drawn to remain next to the headstone of the woman who had been his Head of House, Transfiguration teacher and fellow member of the Order and who had been Headmistress for more than fifty years as his children and grandchildren trickled through the castle's halls.

The red-head could feel his friend's body twist and knew that Harry had turned to gaze at the white marble tomb of Albus Dumbledore, pure color beacon-bright, weathering the seasons and retaining the smooth, polished shine that it had when it had appeared at the end of the lake the better part of a century before.

But the grass around it was empty, and Harry, squinting, started, "I don't see-"

"Not that grave," Ron cut him off quietly, finally glancing towards his friend as Harry returned his gaze in bafflement. Ron could almost see the roster floating in his friend's mind. Who else was buried here? And where? Ron let him think instead of supplying the answer. Harry would take some time to come to the correct conclusion. It wrapped a secret that his wife didn't even know he knew, a silence he had kept all of their lives together, a private torment that he had endured alone to spare her...what? The need to fake something she didn't feel? A burst of pain if he brought it to light? Guilt? Could he berate her for a passion that existed for one person – that person not her husband? A man who had been exonerated and buried in the ground so long ago that legends of bravery had replaced disgusted sneers in Hogwart's corridors and classrooms?

Ron had known that part of her heart had been buried in the warm earth with the pale, curse-pocked, black-shrouded body. And he had married her anyway.

He distinctly recalled the anniversary celebration, one year after the fall of Lord Voldemort. Ginny had graduated with high NEWT scores, and after the official pomp and circus at Hogwarts, the Burrow had thrown a lavish party. The last of their line had successfully completed school, the Dark Lord was still dead, and the sheer quantity of noise generated by more than one hundred guests kept them all from feeling too deeply the hole that came from Fred's permanent absence. At the end of the night, flushed with excitement, Harry had pulled Ginny to the front of the room and proposed to her in front of the entire crowd. Amidst whistles and cheers, Ron's baby sister had accepted the emerald ring – Lily Evan's engagement ring, discovered in a niche in Godric's Hollow – the gold setting and myriad of tiny diamonds surrounding the central stone catching light as it fitted perfectly on her finger.

One toast later brought broad grins and pointed glances towards the long-acknowledged other half of the quad, Harry Potter's two faithful friends throughout his years at Hogwarts, sitting together on a loveseat, their ease with each other clear in their angled bodies, in their tangled hands. But those hoping for a double engagement that evening found themselves disappointed. The pair was newly reunited, Hermione finally emerging from the depression that had swamped her after the war, and Ron had been ill-inclined to push her. Deft deflection had met those willing to press for details, light-hearted conversation deterring most of the well-meaning jibes and inquiries.

And so it had continued. Two more anniversaries passed, Ron stood as best man and Hermione as maid of honor in their best friend's wedding party, Ginny began to blossom with little James. They attended the glaringly public Ministry events arm-in-arm and the much more private affairs at the Burrow and friends' homes with ready smiles. But still no ring had graced Hermione's finger and Ron had continued to delay.

She had never mentioned it, never pushed him forward, content to have her own flat in London, to work for the Ministry, to throw herself back into her causes as only Hermione could. She did not know what Ron was waiting for – that he was seeking a reflection of emotion in those honey-brown eyes that he had seen directed at another man, a passion and love as strong as the northern wind and as bitterly cherished. The gaze that would tell him her heartbeat depended on his smell, on his glance, on his being.

As a boy, Ron would have dismissed such thoughts, assuming that the girl he had been in love with as long as he could remember simply did not and could not feel that way. That Hermione's true impassioned moments were generated only for books or in the presence of complicated magic.

But the last year of the war had taught him to watch, and watch he had. And he had seen that look of abandoned, naked emotion grace her face several times during those final months, plumbing the depths of a magnificent spirit he hadn't known she possessed. And these glances had not been for him.

They had most emphatically been for a man who was off-limits, and the yearning that marred her features had been breathtakingly painful to behold.

Why? After sharing six years of solid friendship, laced with laughter and devotion as well as mind-numbing danger, what had sparked her interest instead in the coldly distant man? Ron couldn't have said. All of his observation had revealed only that the forbidding professor who held her heart returned her feelings with equal fervor, clear from the haunted look in his black eyes whenever she entered the same room.

And when had it started? Ron didn't know that either, and had not dedicated time over the decades to finding out. Why pour acid over his own wounds when time was the balm to heal them? But he was certain it had only been that year, the year Snape's loyalties came to light, a desperate year of battle after battle, darkness followed by increasing darkness until it seemed impossible that they might actually win.

And perhaps...

In spite of his promise to himself not to think of it, it was too easy to cast back to the first night that the tall, forbidding Potions-master-turned-Defense-teacher had ever civily addressed one of the Gryffindors he had made no bones about hating for six years...

888

_June 23__rd__, 1997_

Dumbledore was dying. Harry and Ron were seated just outside the hospital, heads together and whispering furiously as Harry related the events of the evening, fear, awe and no small measure of guilt in his green eyes as professors bustled around them and through the door, vials of potions sparkling with a rainbow of colors in their hands, criss-crossing beams of healing spells humming through the air from many wands.

The Dark Mark blaring poisonous green over the hightest tower of the school had brought Harry and Dumbledore to land on its battlements, and even as they did so, Draco Malfoy had come flying through the door, desperation twisting his cold, sharp features. As instinct had prompted him to turn towards his enemy, Harry had found himself in a full body bind, invisible and unable to act as the scene unfolded before him.

Dumbledore had quietly tried to persuade Draco to turn to their side, and the son of Lucius had hesitated to cast his deadly curse, seeming to consider the older wizard's words-

-and four Death Eaters had pounded into the space on Draco's heels, interrupting the gentle talk with their crass encouragement and taunting as Draco continued to waver. They had been succeeded by Snape, who came ripping up the stairs of the Astronomy Tower as the young Slytherin stood, wand unsteady and countenance uncertain, before the rapidly-fading Headmaster. Blasting onto the ramparts and instantly killing Fenrir Greyback, Snape had proceeded to dispatch the remaining three Death Eaters, Draco crouched safely out of sight behind the formidable duelist. As Yaxley fled – the large blond the only one of Voldemort's followers to survive the fight – Snape had knelt, bundled the greatest wizard of the age into his arms as if he were no more than a child, and sprinted back down the stairs. Harry's curse lifted by Dumbledore's abrupt loss of consciousness and barely-sustained life-force, the young hero had followed.

Through the smoke and haze of battle, ducking curses and flying shrapnel, sent their way both by Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix, Snape had run with his precious burden, Draco Malfoy skittering behind him, jumping swiftly as the staircases shifted underneath them, sliding through shortcuts that would remove them from the main halls.

They had arrived with the venerable wizard intact and instantly set about relieving him of the pain that racked his body, seeking to stop the poison ravaging his veins.

Harry averted his eyes as he mumbled the rest. It was at his own bidding that Dumbledore now lay in such a state, having forced Harry to feed him Voldemort's potion to retrieve the Horcrux bound to Slytherin's locket at the bottom of a cauldron in a cave by the sea.

Ron couldn't think of anything comforting to say as Harry's voice dribbled into miserable silence, so he settled for lightly squeezing his best friend's forearm. Vague thoughts like, _He's a powerful wizard, I'm sure he'll be all right _and _It was obviously really important to get that Horcrux, it's not your fault he ordered you to poison him_ tramped through his brain, but the red-head knew his friend would appreciate neither platitudes nor justifications. True though both statements were, it seemed Harry would have yet one more death added to the growing list that plagued him.

The door to the ward banged open, and both boys jumped, looking hopefully to their Head of House now standing in the ward doorway, cheeks still smeared with smoke, eyes bright with adrenaline but oddly flat behind the sheen. It was a look of leashed despair.

"Is he...?" Harry could not bring himself to finish the sentence.

McGonagall shook her head exhaustedly. "Nothing either Poppy or Severus can do seems to be helping."

The door to the waiting room slammed open from the other end, and in rushed the Weasleys, desperately supporting their oldest son, his face laid open to the bone and riddled with hideous wounds. Ron felt his throat close in agony as he gazed at his once-rakish brother, ear dripping blood where his proud fang earring had been ripped away. "Poppy?" Molly gasped, forcing speech in spite of her tears.

"Quickly!" Minerva commanded, and as Bill Weasley had been shuffled through with his parents, an ever-increasing torrent of people came trooping through the waiting room door.

The Death Eaters had been routed and now the combatants surged from the dark, curse-marked corridors towards the stark white hospital, needing remedies for injuries major and minor, physical and otherwise. Hermione threw herself down next to her friends and hugged them both, wrapping her arms around them and shivering uncontrollably until her leftover fear and exhaustion transmuted to them and they, too, caved in to their over-ridden emotions, grasping one another in a needed release that surpassed tears.

Seconds had become minutes, mintues added up to an hour and even the additional expertise of the rapidly-congregating professors, instantly clusted around their fallen leader, was failing. From outside the ward, the students of Dumbledore's Army, the unharmed members of the Order, and the Weasley family could hear Dumbledore's labored breathing, punctuated by hacking coughs and gasps, growing weaker.

Snape appeared in the doorway just past midnight, his gaunt face even more so under the twin stresses of adrenaline and grief. "Miss Granger." He walked straight towards her, thrust a thick book into her lap and dropped a key into her hand. "Brew the potion on page two-thirty-six immediately. The key is to my laboratory."

She stared at him for an instant, frozen both by the unusual command and this unexpected display of confidence in her abilities, and his black eyes narrowed impatiently. "You are a barely adequate choice at best Miss Granger, but Horace is gravely injured and we are in a hurry. Use your prodigious memory and creativity to do something other than break rules for once – it might save his life."

No further urging had been required. Ignoring the shocked looks on the faces of her peers and without a second glance for her best friends, Hermione had rushed immediately towards the dungeons where, presumably, Snape kept his private cauldrons.

As she left, only Ron heard the exhaled prayer of his roommate and best friend: "Hurry!"

888

_August, 2052_

"Who else is buried here?" Harry finally asked, tearing Ron out of the memory of one of his blackest nights and back into the glorious summer afternoon.

"Other teachers," Ron answered vaguely.

"I know that, Ron, but..." Harry frowned. "Flitwick was claimed by the goblins for burial – even though he was only part goblin, they take care of their own..." He snapped his fingers, green eyes lighting. "Hagrid!"

The half-giant had died only a few years before, and, like their parents and grandparents, the Weasley-Grangers and Potter-Weasleys had made it a habit to visit the aging man until he had passed away quite peacefully in his sleep. It had been Frederick Potter, James' oldest son, who had discovered the body and been found weeping silently at Hagrid's bedside four hours later by his worried cousins and siblings. The families had made it a habit to continue visiting several times a year, each bringing a plant to add to the increasing garden sprawling in true Hagrid-like fashion behind the gamekeeper's cabin.

Ron watched Harry stride purposefully towards the large mound, now covered in wildflowers and sweet grass, surrounded by plants both magical and mundane, that marked their friend's resting place. Hermione would not be there either, but let Harry search for himself while his best friend had a few more minutes reflection in front of Minerva McGonagall's engraved tombstone. Ron was not in the mood to divulge his secret after five decades of keeping it silent.

888

_June 29__th__, 1997_

They had failed.

Ron entered the hospital wing for his customary evening visit to the failing old wizard, and froze just inside the doorway as he watched one of the people he had vaguely, almost childishly, assumed could not die, open his eyes for the last time.

The two people seated by the bed had not noticed him, the unruly curly head of his best friend and the sallow, pointed features of their Potions master and Defense professor locked unerringly on the age-ravaged face as painful conciousness colored the blue gaze.

For six desperate days, Snape's heart had burned in his chest for his infidelity to Narcissa's Vow. He had labored to see the older man survive, convinced that Bellatrix had signed his death warrant with her wand the previous August. Now he only had to wait until the pressure of the Vow burst his aorta and ruptured the chambers of his long-corrupted heart. Even as he sat, the pain seemed to grow sharper...

His student-turned-partner stirred beside the bed as the once-bright eyes had snapped open briefly. Granger was ensconced in a chair across the bed from her professor, and for an instant before reality restructured his life, Severus Snape felt the genuine pull of flying hope. Dumbledore had awakened. The Headmaster would return to them...

"Harry can do it. He must. He is stronger...so much more...than he knows. Help him, Hermione..." A wheezing cough and the old wizard turned his head, sky-colored gaze locking on the man who had left hell to labor in an extended purgatory of Dumbledore's making. The paper-thin, wrinkled hand sought the callused fingers of the Potions master and clasped them. "You should have let me go on the tower, my friend-"

"Don't give up, Albus," the younger man whispered, aware that a student was watching an exchange that would forever change her opinion of him, unable to care that it was one amongst those whom he had hated most. "Miss Granger and I are working. We will cure you."

A dry laugh, and the twinkle that flashed through his gaze made the illusion of improvement fact for less than a second before dullness replaced it. "It is finished. I am old, and we cannot both live. The boy needs _you_, Severus. Never forget that. He is not his father." A sad smile touched the corners of his mouth. "I am so sorry, my boy...I wish I could have released you..."

His eyes widened slightly as if his words were trying to escape through the blue as the lungs collapsed, slender chest sinking inward. It did not rise again. And as Albus Dumbledore breathed his last, the physical, constricting pain born of Snape's broken Vow vanished, to swamp him with an entirely new sorrow, a gaping hole in his world far worse than the threat of his own impending doom. As Severus felt the twisting within his body cease before his grief coalesced around him, he shivered uncontrollably, dry-eyed and white-faced. Somewhere within a little boy of nine howled to be released, for salt water to flood the hospital floor, but that child had died with his mother. Severus Snape had not wept in the years that followed the dirt covering her coffin, and now his body could not recall how.

He could dimly feel hands on his shoulders, gentle, small, feminine, a voice making soothing sounds over him as he stared at the man who had spared him Azkaban, helped him escape the dementors. The man who had allowed him to be reborn, the only man alive who had trusted him to ascend from the depths of what Severus had become.

The only man he would have died for. A man he couldn't save. His hands were fisted and shaking violently. For what had he lived if he failed in this?

Ron shifted uncomfortably as he observed the unfolding tableau and emotions sliding across Snape's face, his world shifting as much from watching the cold man's reaction as from knowing that the Headmaster and Head of the Order had breathed his last. Ron's dark, usually emotionless professor was staring at the too-still form of their beloved general and confidant fixedly, as if the fathomless black eyes alone could will the old man back into the world of the living. Hermione remained behind him, hands making small motions on his robed shoulders, her tears dripping unfelt into the obsidian-black hair, even as her voice kept up a soft, steady crooning pitch. The youngest Weasley knew he had accidentally stumbled onto a private sharing of grief – Hermione and Snape had together created more than a dozen potions to attempt to stave off the death of this man, and they had lost the race against fate. Failure added to their grief, multiplying it, and in its storm, they reached for each other.

And yet, oddly, nothing bothered him in seeing this strangely intimate pose between two people who should never share it. Professor and student, light and dark, twenty years apart. It was a moment suspended in time, where raw emotions superceded such petty details and the catalyst of their sorrow and mutual guilt conquered six years of hatred in an expression of needed, platonic support.

888

_August, 2052_

Though Ron had to admit that, even in retrospect, his memory could summon no other emotion behind the deep-seated pain, that had been the beginning of his wife's transformation, the event that started the unfolding chain that followed. He had shuffled forward after a respectful interval, making his presence known and Hermione had lifted her tear-blotched face, eyes settling on him like a starving woman as she made to move forward, only to be halted by the death-grip Snape had suddenly acquired on her right hand, trapping it to his shoulder. Wincing with the tightness of his hold, Hermione had nevertheless remained still, and Ron had sidled up to her, wrapping an arm around her waist and encouraging her to lean on him, which she had gratefully done.

She had altered gradually after that, so slowly that even though he had combed through every detail as a young man, agnoized by his knowledge of her feelings for their long-despised professor, he could not pinpoint an exact instant where she had shifted. She simply had unfolded a new pair of wings feather by feather, like a baby owl, and one day, he had taken note that she could fly.

He had spent a lifetime regretting that her flight never truly brought her home to roost on his arm.


	2. The Swamp of Memory

Disclaimer: Not mine, all non-profit work, rights are fully owned by JKR, WB and others.

A/N: The second chapter of this three-part story – please read, enjoy and review!

The Swamp of Memory

_August, 2052_

Ron turned to watch Harry pacing irritably around Hagrid's grave, his limp distinctive even at this distance. The youngest scion of the Weasley family wondered a bit at his reluctance, both when they had still been at Hogwarts and as the years had spun onward, to reveal this knowledge to his best friend. As boys in their early years, they had kept no secrets. Even at this distance, it was easy to recall his raging sense of betrayal when he had been certain Harry had entered the Triwizard Tournament without telling him how...

But Hermione's return to _his_ grave twice a year, every year, to unburden her soul and share news was a solitary undertaking. Two afternoons a year. She had never invited Ron. She had never taken Rose or Hugo or any of their grandchildren. Ron had followed once, out of curiosity. He had watched for perhaps five minutes before shame and jealousy together spurred his retreat. Shame because she spoke with a fluid passion to the dark grey stone, her steady voice betraying a hint of loneliness coupled with longing. Jealousy because he knew that he could not fill that place, he could neither be the one hearing the sentiments that poured from her lips nor the man who was capable of erasing the haunting spectre of a love acknowledged but never touched.

His mind seemed determined to betray him today. Though he had not brooded on this topic in depth for many years – after all, he had married her, raised two children in a warm and loving home, and delightedly watched the birth of five grandchildren – the afternoon sunshine could not keep his brain from returning to days that seemed permanently dark, the castle full of fearful whispers, the _Prophet_ packed with damning headlines.

Unbidden, a memory sprinted forward – the first time he had seen her look at Snape with eyes full of emotions that Ron had possessively assumed were only for him and Harry, a glance comprised of tenderness and gratitude...

The clarity with which it shone in his mind's eye still took his breath away.

888

_September 12__th__, 1997_

Ron yawned as he shuffled towards the kitchen in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, for breakfast, wishing vaguely that this month had been reserved for their schooling. Given the almost-hysterics of his mother when her two youngest children had flatly told her that they would not be attending Hogwarts the following year, Ron had been incredibly grateful when Minerva McGonagall, as the new Headmistress, had offered a solution.

They would school part-time – five months out of the ten-month year, at Hogwarts, focusing on the subjects necessary to destroy the Horcruxes – Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions and – in Hermione's case – Arithmancy. The actual search would occupy the rest of their time. Harry had been restless with the idea of returning to school at all, but Hermione had reminded everyone with tears in her eyes and a dismal radiation of failure that the Peverell Ring had crippled the most powerful wizard of several generations, and the mere wards surrounding what had turned out to be a false Horcrux had finished him off. They needed access to the expertise at Hogwarts – their many professors and the castle's formidable library, which the young witch had memorized years ago.

During their five months out of school, however, they had to provide for themselves in all the necessities of life. And the fact that Ron was not compelled to run to the Great Hall before dashing to his first class did not make the idea of having to fix his own breakfast this morning any more appealing. Since winning Kreacher's complete loyalty, Harry had been sending the house-elf out on specific tasks more easily accomplished by a servant who could Apparate at whim and attract no attention. Consequently, although the old elf made mouth-watering dishes on the rare occasions he was granted the time, it left the four semi-permanent residents of the old townhouse to largely forage for themselves.

As he neared the kitchen door, Ron could hear voices. The first lightened his step with a quiet anticipation as he recognized the gentle cadence of Hermione's tones. The second he could not place. It was definitely male, but too deep by far to be Harry's. Wondering who in his family had come to visit – other than a very few Order members, only the Weasleys had uninhibited access to their secondary headquarters – Ron quietly pushed open the door.

The black-haired newcomer was seated with his back to Ron as Hermione stood near the sink, two coffee cups in hand and the smell of eggs and – was that bacon? – coming from the frying pan. She didn't look up from her task, apparently deaf to his entrance, as she said quietly, "I can't help but feel that if I had known more...you should have had a more capable assistant, sir."

"Miss Granger, I do not know how many more ways to tell you that you _cannot_ blame yourself." If the long-ish dark hair hadn't been enough, the voice betrayed the identity of their guest. Ron felt his legs stop moving as his brain scrambled to catch up, body frozen in the doorway. Snape had been to Grimmauld Place perhaps three times over the course of the summer, entering and exiting as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. What would have possessed him to be here this early in the morning and – to all appearances – be engaged in a personal conversation with Hermione?

"Not only is your sheer quantity of knowledge and memorized information an invaluable asset, you were following complicated instructions to the letter in extreme circumstances. One with many more years in the field could not have done better." A quiet, almost melancholy, sigh punctuated his next statement. "Everyone dies, Hermione. And although the Headmaster's passing was undoubtedly painful, he left this plane after a full life, in the presence of people who cared about him. I have seen many who pass alone and screaming, witches and wizards who have not a quarter of his age. He made his own decision. The failure to save him does not rest with you – or with me, and nor does it land on the shoulders of Draco or Narcissa. The only two wizards responsible are the Dark Lord and the Headmaster himself."

Ron watched the corners of Hermione's mouth turn upwards a bit at this statement, and sorrow bled together with a trickle of amusement as she said, "It sounds like you've given that speech before."

The black head tilted sideways in a gesture of acknowledgement. "I have. It's the one I gave myself, and a variation on words I have heard countless times. When you work in a field where your skills and knowledge sometimes make the difference between another's life or death, you will experience your first failure. Every master recalls the feeling of watching that first heart stop beating and the surety that always swamps you that _you could have found a way_. If you were more clever, or had read more, or hadn't forgotten the property of a certain magical plant, then those lungs would be drawing air instead of being prepared for a shroud."

He leaned forward, just enough that Ron could see a narrow slice of his face. The red-head knew he was gaping as he stared at a man he had never seen before. There was no sneer here, no disdain, no dislike, no hint on the earnest, composed features of their acerbic professor who regularly terrified Neville into histrionics. This was also not the grieving, guilt-ridden man that Ron had glimpsed at Dumbledore's deathbed. He looked..._Human_, Ron realized and stopped the self-mocking snort that rose in the back of his throat, not wanting to interrupt a scene he almost certainly should not be witnessing, but could not tear himself away from.

"But none of that is true. In the case with the Headmaster, especially, you should feel no guilt or shame. You performed exactly as I expected you to – flawlessly. The poison was unknown to me and you did all you could in the time available. We both did. Feel pride in what you did accomplish, Miss Granger-" the switch back to formal address was noticed both by Ron and his best friend, Hermione's spine straightening ever-so-slightly with Snape's return to his teaching voice, "-that you have completed several potions beyond the NEWT level perfectly, and, more importantly, that you worked swiftly and well under abnormally high pressure. You now know your own capabilities. In the next years we will have great need for someone who can do what you have done – put everything else aside and focus on the complex task at hand. Just because Albus Dumbledore passed away doesn't mean that the next time you won't be putting a stopper in death."

Hermione finally looked up from her cooking, and smiled. It was a smile comprised of equal parts bittersweet pain, absolute gratitude and complete trust, the kind of smile Ron had seen her direct only at Harry and at himself. He was surprised by the burning jealousy that seized his gut when he saw the vulnerable expression he had always reserved for their deep friendship directed at their reserved, sardonic professor.

"Thank you," she said quietly. And although the two commonplace words were all that passed her lips, the feelings trailing behind them could have filled volumes.

"You're welcome," came the equally gentle reply. And as a smile started to curve Hermione's mouth, her gaze traveled past their guest and to the doorway, where Ron stood, still frozen in his position of half in and half out.

Her eyes shuttered instantly, smile erased as her head whipped back towards the frying pan, embarrassment turning her cheeks and neck a bright pink. His feeling of intrusion peaked painfully, and he knew that he, too, was coloring. "Ron! Good morning!" she greeted him forcefully, all attention now carefully devoted to the eggs.

"I – 'morning Hermione, Professor," he tilted his head at Snape as he decided the only thing to do was make a full entrance. He awkwardly poured himself a cup of coffee before adding, "I, uh, didn't mean to eavesdrop..." He was uncertain which one he was addressing. Societal rules and fear for his hide dictated that it should be his caustic teacher, but it had been Hermione's face that he had seen giving such a private display...

"Sorry, Hermione. I just got here and you seemed to be having such an important discussion. I didn't want to disturb you," he finally managed to spit out, ignoring the hissing mass of spite, jealousy, affection and fear bubbling in his chest.

"Having ears where they don't belong seems to be a specialty of the family, Mr. Weasley," Snape drawled, rising with lithe grace, the archetypal aloof, disdainful professor wiping out all prior evidence of the multi-faceted man who had occupied the chair a moment ago. "I don't suppose it occurred to you to leave instead of standing there with an expression resembling that of a fish as you listened to something that in no way concerns you?"

Does_ he have eyes in the back of his head?_ Ron heard the younger part of his mind pipe up before he throttled it. Snape's likely correct commentary came from observation – Ron was sure his mouth had been partially open for the whole exchange.

"Erm-"

"Scintillating as ever, Weasley. Glad to know that early morning doesn't bring out your brilliance any more than other times of the day." Snape was at the door, where he paused to look back at Hermione. Though the enforced mask of professionalism and age difference once again made his face closed and remote, the second-nature sneer that the male two-thirds of the triad always elicited was lacking as Snape chose his parting words in a civil tone.

"If you should have more questions, Miss Granger – especially of the academic bent, give yourself enough time to receive replies – anything you send to me will take at least one or two days to answer."

As he vanished and they heard the front door close a moment later, Ron stared at Hermione, who was now serving him eggs. He wondered if she had been _cooking_ for Snape before shoving that entirely unwelcome thought out of his head. He couldn't contemplate the surprisingly domestic scene he had just witnessed, and the lingering impression of semi-comfort that Snape had expressed here. The man was always irritable – at dinner in the Great Hall, at Order meetings, in front of a class. To see early-morning light falling on the tightly-wound wizard who seemed slightly more relaxed in a place Ron considered his own had jarred him, and there were more important things to focus on now than his professor. He restrained a sigh. After watching the older man's tremendous fight to save the Headmaster the previous summer, both he and Harry had wholeheartedly changed their opinions of him, but it was still...unnerving to see him here. It had been so much easier simply to hate him.

"Why was he here?" he asked, hoping the question was casual and not spiteful. Six years of loathing was not easily transmuted into accord, especially when their professor seemed to have no intention of meeting them halfway in their efforts.

Hermione sighed, took her plate to the table and sat, shoving the food around listlessly for a few seconds before lifting her head and asking, "You heard him. Why do you think?"

Ron held his hands up in a gesture of surrender at the sharpness of her voice. "Whoa, Hermione. I said I was sorry. I guess I was so surprised to see him here, especially at..." he squinted at the analog clock on the wall and nearly groaned. Why had his body decided to keep their Quidditch-training schedule? "...seven in the morning, I didn't even think about it."

"That's my Ron," she said, wry amusement dominant in her voice. His heart gave a hopeful jump, but the look in her eye was distant, almost like a mother speaking of her son, and the feeling died aborning.

"But really," Ron pressed as he swallowed his first bite, "These are delish, Hermione, by the way, thank you. Why was he here?"

"Advice, I suppose," she answered. "Reassurance that I'm not a failure. I've been needing it."

Sudden resentment clawed up his throat, souring the taste of the eggs. What could Snape – practically a stranger and one with a nasty history to boot – say that was so much more effective than the praise and kind words of her best friends? Of his family? Of the Order? "Hermione, everyone's told you it's not your fault. My parents, Harry'n'me, Ginny. Even Moody said you did more than anyone could have expected of a professional under the circumstances."

"I know. But Professor Snape...he _understands_, Ron, in a...more immediate? – way than anyone else. It's _his_ line of work, and I was helping him. He nearly died himself trying to save the Headmaster. It was personal, all that effort...and then...only to have lost him anyway..." Her voice had petered out, and Ron could see that the tears brightening her eyes all summer were threatening to overflow again. "It's wasn't like an exam, where even if you get low grades it doesn't _really_ matter...can you imagine if we'd gone after the Philosopher's Stone and failed? Or if Harry had died in the Chamber of Secrets? If my Time-Turner hadn't saved Sirius or Harry had fallen to Voldemort along with Cedric?"

Ron felt his own throat tighten again at her distress, and he reached over the table to grasp her hand, resentment vanishing. They had gotten lucky. Too lucky, over the years, as if the trio had been bathed in a glow of never-ending Felix Felicis. Others had laid down their lives – intentionally and accidentally – but they kept going, reaching, striving, surviving when they should not have, on missions both vital and false. An unexpected understanding of his best friend's turbulent emotions blossomed abruptly. For the first time, both her hard-earned book knowledge and luck had run out, and the wizarding world had lost a man who was a dearly loved defender, mentor and leader.

But it still wasn't her fault. They couldn't be untouchable all the time. "Hey," he said gently, squeezing her smaller fingers lightly, "you know you couldn't have done anything more. Snape just told you that."

"_Professor _Snape," she corrected automatically, and Ron grinned cheekily, catching her eye until she returned the smile – it didn't touch her eyes, but it was enough that she was trying.

"Right. _Professor _Snape," he agreed. "Stop punishing yourself. He's right. Next time, you might succeed. Knowing my Hermione, you definitely will." Hermione did smile at that, and shook her head as she rose, shoveling the rest of her mostly untouched breakfast onto Ron's plate and putting her own in the sink, waving her wand to start both soap and sponge.

When she turned back to him, affection and appreciation shone in her eyes. "How on earth did I get a friend like you? Whatever possessed you to lock that mountain troll in the girls' bathroom, I'm glad you did it."

Ron chuckled. "Me, too. After all, how could I have known then you'd be a great chef on top of everything else?"

"Ronald Bilius Weasley! Sometimes I think your brain's in your stomach!" She sounded so much like his mother that he burst into laughter, mindless of the two probably still sleeping upstairs, warmth suffusing him when he heard her higher-pitched giggles merging with his.

888

_August, 2052_

The sound of Harry stomping back through the lawn towards him once again tugged Ron from that summer many years past, and he realized that his mouth had stretched into a sadly-sweet smile at his recollection. No, there had never been wild passion there, not of the kind Ron knew his wife possessed, but friendship...there had been plenty of that.

_Enough to build a lifetime around?_ he suddenly found himself wondering, the old unsurety back for the first time in many decades.

He shook himself. He had always made himself content, had known, as he had never seen the cleaving glance of desire and hopelessness directed at him or anyone else, that some unacknowledged part of Hermione had died with their professor and been laid to rest in his grave. Now was the not the time for regrets or second guesses.

But even as the sound of Harry's cane thudding regularly on the grass grew louder, Ron felt the twisting yearning of a dream he had surrendered long ago, the wistful longing to be the recipient of that love enhanced by his stumbling into the swamp of his memories – remembering their unconventional relationship, the occasionally glowing looks she would shoot at their professor, a look she had never, _once_, turned on her husband...

That their connection had forged a deeper road than the conventional one of pupil and teacher – especially any student with that particular professor – had been clear by the Christmas holidays, as Fred and George had been so kind to comment at the New Year's dinner their mother had made at the Burrow.

888

_December 31__st__, 1997_

"Fascinating, wouldn't you say, Fred?" Ron heard the deceptively mild tones of his brother George just a few feet behind him, and he turned, diverted from his impulse to find Hermione in the crush of people.

"What's fascinating?" he asked. He half expected to be told to bugger off. Since their graduation from Hogwarts, the twins had had more patience for their younger brother, but it didn't always extend to including him in their conversations.

But Fred simply jerked his chin in the direction of one of the Burrow's many corners and Ron followed his gaze. Extra couches and armchairs had been Summoned and created for this evening at their family home as almost fifty members of the Order and Dumbledore's Army had been invited for the New Year's Eve supper.

But the group that the twins had focused on were not seated and comfortably debating Quidditch League prospects, fondly reminiscing or even debating the use of defensive spells. They were standing in a tight circle, the air around them practically pulsing with a seriousness and tense excitement that most of the other guests were taking care to avoid. Their father and oldest brother were there, the Lupins – Remus had one arm around his wife's waist – and the Potions master of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger at his side.

Ron's feet seemed to develop anchors instantly, and he cursed himself. He had been this way all semester - whenever he saw them together, his tongue grew thick, his legs grew roots, and all he could do was watch.

Ron desperately strove to say something normal now as the ever-stronger feeling of dread and envy consumed him. Harry seemed not to have noticed it and the normally-observant Ginny had said nothing about the growing affinity of the mismatched pair– had his brothers seen in one night what others appeared blind to for months?

"I wonder what they're talking about?" he heard himself say.

"We thought you might know," George muttered. "Whatever it is, Snape's got them all wrapped around his little finger. I haven't seen Dad so excited since before the World Cup and this whole disaster got going. Hermione's working with Snape, right?"

"Yeah. She's got a project or something, but they're keeping it very hushed up. What d'you think?"

"Watch," Fred answered quietly, even as his hands started to fish in his pockets for something. As Ron stared, Remus's hazel eyes widened and he reached over to squeeze Hermione's shoulder, his excitement palpable, even without hearing the words. Something like pride flashed on Snape's features and his face creased in a gentle smile so briefly that to blink was to miss it.

Ron hadn't.

Before jealousy could fully claim him, Ron found a flesh colored string thrust into his hand and the quiet, intense voices of the distant conversation were thrown into relief.

"It seems you've got a good sense for Potions," Lupin was saying, his gentle hazel eyes glittering with a father's pleasure for his daughter's accomplishments.

"Much to my surprise, Miss Granger has surpassed even what I expected of her myself in these past months. As I am sure you recall, Lupin, Potions requires too much patience for the average Gryffindor," Snape replied. "Fortunately, it seems that she has a rather over-developed sense of it, probably acquired while taking care of Potter for all these years." No one in the circle reacted to the oft-heard criticism and Snape continued smoothly. "It was actually her idea to add unicorn hair-"

"-which, when gathered from a _willing_ unicorn, can help counter the effects of the bite," Hermione jumped in. "It's all about balancing intention. After all, most werewolves aren't exactly trying to infect others – it's an act of mindless instinct, not deliberate malice."

"A vaccine for werewolf attacks." Bill breathed, fingertips rising unconsciously to touch the scars left on his face after Greyback's savagery the previous spring.

"The only issue is getting the solution to work for all bites. As you know, Greyback has converted several of his fellows to his way of thinking, and they _intend_ to cause harm, so the pure and logical gift of the unicorn does not affect a wound inflicted by them in the same way..." Hermione trailed off, one finger pressed to her lips in thought.

"Still, Hermione, you and Severus have made amazing-" Arthur Weasley started to chip in his praise, and stopped as Hermione's eyes brightened and she spun to her professor, narrowing the exchange to the pair of them with the incisive nature of her glance.

"Moonstone," she breathed.

"A volatile substance," Snape countered, his eyebrows drawing together as he tried to follow her thought process.

"But already used in the Wolfsbane Potion, so effective on some fronts. What if it were powdered?" she pressured, voice taut as her mouth could not possibly keep up with the speed of her brain. "Powdered and mixed with sandstone-"

"Instead of flaked...sandstone would lend it stability, and – if you infuse it with pure water – say, snow-melt – from a silver mine-"

"-which should help repel infection because of their allergy to the metal! Then bathe the unicorn hair in the paste, so that intention bleeds into the minerals..."

The whole epiphany had taken no more than fifteen seconds. A moment's silence as both minds reviewed the proposal they had just formed, and then there were no more words as they turned in an syncopated motion towards the front door, their single-minded intent clear in the matched, blazing quality of their eyes.

"Glad to be of help," Bill said in amusement, blinking at the abruptly departing duo.

Lupin was also watching their rapidly retreating backs with a look of surprise and cautious hopefulness. "I'm glad to see Hermione getting through to him – other than a token regard for his own Slytherins, I've never seen Severus express real interest in a student's academic career before."

"Anybody would be proud of Hermione Granger," Arthur said quietly. "Sometimes, I pity her parents. It's a shame that they're stuck in a world where they can't _really_ understand the impact their daughter is having, or the magnitude of her brilliance."

"Her enthusiasm is all very well," 'Dora said quietly, practicality breaking into their admiration society, "but isn't she staying with you, Arthur? She's still a student and a girl, and it's not safe for her to return to Hogwarts on a whim, even with Snape. After attempting to save Albus last year, he _is_ second on You-Know-Who's current 'Most Wanted' list."

As they watched their father's resigned expression agree with 'Dora's point and the oldest Weasley darted forward to impede the pair's progress, the three brothers pulled the Extendable Ears from their own natural ones and stared at each other. "She helped him try to cure Dumbledore last year, didn't she?" George asked idly.

Ron nodded, unable to speak through the closure in his throat. As close as they were, he had never been able to follow her thought process so immediately, almost as if they shared a brain. The child in him cried, _Legilimency__!_, but he stifled it. They had enough problems and pressures without him inventing demons, and it was quite clear that no mind-reading had been necessary between the two.

"Amazing. I think Snape's developed genuine respect for a Gryffindor," George was continuing. "We'll have to award her a medal when all this is finished: 'Order of the Phoenix, First Class, for singlehandedly unbending the most tight-arsed professor ever to grace Hogwarts.' What many a brown-nosed swot wouldn't have given to accomplish what she has."

"Including our own, dear, Percy," Fred chuckled. He and George glanced at Ron as they realized he wasn't sharing in the joke.

"Something wrong?" George asked.

"No, nothing," Ron smiled woodenly. A muffled sound of irritated argument was coming from the entry hall. Apparently, Hermione wasn't taking kindly to being told she had to remain behind. "I'm going to go help Dad. You know Hermione – it's always about school with her. I think she doesn't know how to relax."

"Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley is correct. It would be...imprudent...for you to accompany me to Hogwarts at this time," Snape was saying as Ron ducked through the myriad cloaks and snow-soaked boots cluttering the small entryway. The black eyes of the professor caught the blue of Hermione's advancing best friend and he nodded.

"Your friends wish for your presence, and in the interest of the safety of all involved, I must insist you accommodate them. If you leave, I have no doubt Messrs Weasley and Potter will find it necessary to come after you, and rescuing Gryffindors from certain trouble was most emphatically _not_ on my to-do list tonight."

"Don't test it without me," she pleaded, resigning herself to obedience as Ron's father took her cloak from her hands and re-hung it on the rack.

"You have my word," he promised. "I will make notes and prepare ingredients, but I will wait for you."

Hermione sighed, her shoulders slumping in acquiescence as she strangled her immediate need to slake her academic thirst. For a moment, Snape's hand moved beneath his cloak as if he were going to reach out to her, compassionate understanding highlighting the black gaze, but Ron saw him master the impulse and offer a handshake to the older Weasley instead.

"Thank you for dinner. As always, it was excellent fare. Extend my thanks to Mrs. Weasley as well." He gave Ron a curt nod of dismissal, his midnight eyes lingered very briefly on Hermione's face, and he left, door snapping closed in his wake.

888

_August, 2052_

"Snape," Harry's voice dropped the name in Ron's ear, making his best friend from childhood jump. "She's at Snape's grave." But Ron neither nodded nor shook his head in response to the confident statement, unwilling to confirm and unable to deny it with the memory of Hermione's face, all eagerness and excitement, and the confident, comfortable interaction between the unlikely pair.

"What's wrong, Ron?" Years of knowing each other brought a furrow of concentrated worry to Harry's brow. "What is it? What's going on? And don't tell me 'nothing'," the dark-and-silver-haired Auror said swiftly as Ron started to open his mouth. "You've been...off all day. Why don't you enlighten me as to why?"

Ron smiled, could feel the emptiness of his expression even as it touched his lips. "I can't, Harry." He looked up, blue eyes directly meeting the green. "It's private."

"It's about Hermione," Harry countered. Ron shrugged. With the number of issues a married couple potentially had, Harry's guess was about as accurate and as exact as studying a cloudy sky and saying, "It looks like rain."

"You guys have a fight?" Harry prodded, still probing.

"No," Ron answered shortly. Perhaps it _would_ have been better if they had, if it had taken place years ago, before their marriage – if she'd ever just admitted, out loud, how much she had loved someone else, maybe she would have been able to release the feeling with the words-

-and a new remembrance darted forward, submerging him as completely as a headlong dive into a Pensieve.

Touch. The first time he had ever seen them actually touch. A small, tanned hand on a black sleeve, so small a thing – and yet the seething tension that had charged the air with the gesture had told the true story and very nearly broken his heart.

888

_January 23__rd__, 1997_

Ron was taking the stairs two at a time in a reckless dash from the library to his private Charms lesson with the diminutive Head of Ravenclaw, wondering when he had turned into his best friend, when he saw them below him in the corridor under the staircase.

Feeling as if an internal brake had abruptly been yanked, he couldn't help himself as he skidded to a stop – unseen, but in a place to do plenty of seeing.

It had become not uncommon to see these two heads bent together for brief moments between classes, meals and hours spent in research and training. Well-known for her love of academics, it had never been rare to see Hermione discussing some subject at length with a teacher, even during her first year, and if some thought it strange that Snape was suddenly willing to tolerate her after their collaboration the previous June, no one gave voice to it.

Still...the red-head shifted uneasily as he stood on the stairs and watched them yet again. The tangle of brown curls and the long black hair mostly masking his teacher's face remained an appropriate, professional distance apart – close enough to reach out if there was need, far enough for someone in a hurry to leap through the gap in their bodies. But there was something else in these short moments, for all their appearance of perfect propriety, a subtext running like fine sand over the scene that made Ron's skin itch with both anticipation and dread every time he saw them together.

It occurred to him that it was strange for him to be the ever-hidden third party, observing Hermione's interactions with their Potions professor, but it seemed that his own nosiness doomed him to playing the role.

The familiar feeling of becoming rooted to the spot had spiraled through Ron's legs as surely as if the soles of his feet had fused with the stone, and forced him to drink his own form of torture.

For it was undeniably painful for the young man to watch the exclusive relationship unfolding, Hermione's growing attachment – in an undefined and understated way – to a person and subject that could never include her two best friends. Ron desperately wished he could be like Harry, whose quiet acceptance held so much more dignity than the red-head's obsessive, distracting worry. He had told Harry, in sparse, halting detail, both of the exchange he had walked in on in Grimmauld Place in September, and the New Year's party conversation, but the young hero seemed ill-inclined to think much of it. "She needed to hear it from him and he told her. I don't see what the big deal is, Ron," Harry had replied quietly. "You know Hermione – as far as our teachers go, he was her 'Final Frontier', the last holdout, the only one never to acknowledge her brilliance. Then he did and she feels like she failed him. I think it's good that they're working together and that she's got a big breakthrough – she probably feels much better and more useful now."

Harry was probably right, but Ron's brain just wouldn't let it rest, haunted by the serious weight of Hermione's gratitude and the ease of his professor in her presence. The youngest Weasley son hated himself for his uncharitable thoughts, for the sharp, consuming pangs of – was it jealousy? Or merely insecurity? Or just an unhealthy, but thoroughly effective, way of diverting his attention? After all, most teenage boys did not fear the deaths of their friends and family at the hands of a violent madman. Most stressed about Quidditch teams and losing the girl they liked to some other bloke.

_Perhaps _I _get to worry about both at the same time_, he thought snippily, ears focusing on catching the faint sounds drifting up from below him. As he inched forward silently to listen more closely, Snape's face lifted slightly, giving Ron a clear look at him in the purple shades of twilight coming through the windows.

He was smiling. Not with his mouth, but the glittering of his black eyes told a story all their own, and a fleeting expression of something like tenderness softened them as Hermione spoke earnestly. Then her head came up, eyes clearly searching his face for a reaction to whatever she was saying, and the gentleness disappeared, schooled under her scrutiny.

"...Miss Granger, you know precisely where the laboratory and the storerooms are if you wish to run a few tests," Snape rumbled, his voice completely mild, something of the smile still in his eyes.

"That's not what I was asking!" Ron heard Hermione reply, and though he could only see the back of her head, he could hear the all-too-familiar affectionate exasperation in her voice. He strained to catch the next words. "I want...I _need_ your help. If you think its a viable idea. We're still missing something vital."

A tilt of the tall man's head, a nod of acquiescence. "That is true. As for the idea...it's certainly interesting. Your research is, as usual, sound. And as werewolf attacks are growing more frequent...anything to protect the Order from Greyback and his ilk will be a valuable asset." He arched an eyebrow. "Congratulations, Miss Granger. You have found yet one more way for me to spend my life protecting your friends. Between you and the Headmistress, I'm amazed I still have time for classes."

Hermione's gasp of discovery and delight at Snape's agreement and then her quiet laugh at his affected disgruntlement culminated in Ron's demonstrative friend reaching out instinctively to casually grasp their professor's arm.

But an action that would have been quickly returned and as swiftly forgotten amongst friends here had a different significance. As her hand closed over his left sleeve, the corridor choked with tension, an almost wondering look tied to one of intense consternation crossing Snape's features.

Without his noticing, the professor's right hand moved to cover Hermione's, long, pale fingers settling almost hesitantly over hers, the tenor of the touch so far from the realm of his day-to-day experience that the one-time spy froze, his body taking over where his nimble mind stalled.

And as the sky darkened toward blue, Ron finally caught a glimpse of Hermione's face as she stared at her teacher – hope, anticipation, excitement and...a trembling to her mouth, a heat to her cinnamon eyes...

Ron felt as if he'd been trampled by a herd of Hippogriffs.

His blood roaring in his ears, he did not hear what was said to extricate both parties from their abruptly awkward and inappropriate understanding in so public a space. But Hermione was moving away swiftly, her feet headed towards the Great Hall, leaving Snape to watch her with an expression of equal parts amazement and pain, his face all but hidden in the shadows of the oncoming night.

Reluctant though he had been to label the amorphous, unique relationship springing up between Gryffindor's leading lioness and the Head of Slytherin, Ron suddenly found, with a sickness in his stomach, that he knew exactly what he would call the nature of their tightly-woven, thrumming interaction.

Precious. A pearl of inestimable price, highly guarded and privately treasured.

888

_August, 2052_

No one else had ever seen it. Even Fred and George, for all their observation, had looked on it as no more than a mild aberration in Snape's behavior. Members of the Order, the Hogwarts staff, his fellow students – they saw detached pride, the fierce, but dry, meeting of two minds submerged in academia, the accepted relationship of Master and Apprentice, not the terrible hunger for something more that sometimes overshadowed even the most staid of conversations.

"I'm thinking about heading over to get her," Harry's voice once again interrupted his musing. "I need to pay my respects as well, and then maybe we should go inside. The _Prophet_'ll want our words on Professor McGonagall."

Ron snorted. "When was the last time you cared what the _Daily Prophet _wanted?"

Harry laughed quietly. "I will concede that. All right, maybe we should get her and go in because my stomach indicates that it needs some of the very good food floating around the Great Hall right now."

Ron sighed, shrugged, surrendered. He had hoped to stand here reflecting on his former Head of House, perhaps say a few private words if they came to mind, maybe to pray if he felt moved to do so.

But his memory had betrayed him, and he was tired of walking the same roads that he had strode as a young man. There had been no answers then, and the intervening fifty years certainly hadn't shed any light on the lonely way.

"All right. Let's go find Hermione."

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A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed last time - your comments mean the world, as they are the only currency we fanfic writers earn! Never fear, Lipasnape, I should have some more young Severus coming soon - I've been working on him recently! DanniV, this is not yet finished, there's one more chapter following this one.


	3. Where the Heart Lies

Disclaimer: Not mine, all non-profit work, rights are fully owned by JKR, WB and others.

A/N: The third and final chapter of this three-part story – please read, enjoy and review!

Where the Heart Lies

_August, 2052_

The silence had fallen heavier than the regular _thump_ of Harry's staff, lending the surprisingly pleasant summer day a stifling layer that did not truly exist. Ron had made non-committal noises to Harry's continued, gentle, inquiries, and eventually, the hopeful chirps of a few early crickets and the occasional warbling bird were the only sounds to bounce in their ears as they walked to Hogwarts' least-visited and most-hidden grave-site.

Passing the lake, a huge arm slid through the surface, barely disturbing the glass-smoothness to flip at them lazily before vanishing again.

"You don't suppose it's immortal, do you?" Harry ventured finally with the air of someone reaching for a common ground that seemed suddenly shaky.

Ron allowed himself a smile, striving to bury the odd feeling the day had brought him, chastising himself for bringing Harry unease on today of all days. "No. Hagrid probably got one of our children to wrestle fifty merpeople, fight a herd of centaurs and harness thestrals to bring it a mate and produce offspring."

"All adventures conveniently left out of those oh-so-thorough letters they sent home?"

This received an outright snort. "I'm trying to remember what Mum ever knew we'd done while we were still at school. I think before the Department of Mysteries disaster, I managed to keep it mostly secret. Remember the Howler for the Ford Anglia? Mum would've yanked me out of school outright if she'd ever known I let myself be knocked around by a chess set almost twice my size, or gone chasing after werewolves."

"And she would have been right to," Harry said slowly, all laughter gone from his voice. "I think of what I did at Hogwarts...what I led you into...did Ginny ever tell you that I almost couldn't let James come? I had nightmares for months before he left. Sixteen years after I killed Voldemort, I was well accustomed to being the father of three...and I suddenly realized what any caring parent would have felt if they'd known what we did here. I would wake up in the middle of the night convinced that sending James to school was paramount to signing his death warrant..."

Ron tilted his head gently. Although neither he nor Hermione had ever had such severe fears, they had both expressed unfounded misgivings when first Rose and then Hugo had entered the castle's walls. _Old soldiers never die_...he thought, without a trace of whimsy. Memories faded, but the blinding terror, long-since consigned to the world of dreams, never left, and it had ambushed them occasionally – resulting in hastily sent owls to confirm that their children were all right.

The wind picked up slightly, and they were within sight of Snape's grave. They could see the long, whipping silver-and-brown mane – she had loosed it from the traditional long plait and it rode the breeze freely, as unmanageable in her seventies as it had been at seventeen – blowing away from Hermione's face as she kneeled in front of the stone, unconscious of them, her world narrowed to the strip of ground under her knees and the black marble that she reached to brush with just her fingertips, the caress of an old lover.

Ron halted in his tracks, unwilling to venture any closer.

Fear was not the only emotion that had never vanished.

888

_March, 1998_

Ron was pacing in circles on the well-worn rug, glancing at the fireplace every few seconds, unable to keep his gaze from the crackling, persistently flame-colored fire that blazed there. Each sideways flicker of his eyes hoped to reveal the peculiar, almost neon-green color that betrayed Floo powder.

"Sit down, Ron, you're making us all worse," Harry ordered in exasperation. He was leaning against the mantle, his own face steadfastly fixed on the cheerful fire, his green eyes briefly darting to the third member of their trio, white-faced, tight-fisted and ensconced in a chair directly in front of the flames.

Their Potions master had forbidden anyone to come with him to retrieve the Horcrux stashed in, of all places, Longbottom Hall. It suited Bellatrix Lestrange's cruel sense of humor to have woven Hufflepuff's cup into the venerable, and largely destroyed, family's ancestral home. When Ron had asserted that it should be the easiest to retrieve, being in the house of staunch allies, Snape had turned to him with a pronounced sneer.

"_That statement can only be founded on two assumptions that could prove fatal to all of you. Never, ever, deliberately trigger a trap without first understanding the psychology of the one who set it and the history of the place where it was created. This Horcrux will likely prove to have the _most_ dangerous wards – Bellatrix would have wanted to leave her distinct mark."_

He had disappeared four hours ago under the black marble mantle in his office, leaving the three of them to wait, with one of Harry's former DA Galleons tucked into the hero's pocket to summon both Headmistress McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey if Professor Snape required assistance on his return.

The fire finally roared an unnatural shade, and, instinctively, all three students edged closer to it, wands drawn in case their professor were followed – or, worse, if someone entirely unfriendly were coming through.

Ron felt the tension in the room release slightly when it was Snape's sallow features and too-skinny form that spun from the ashes, although Harry's wand remained trained on the magical entrance in case it should flare again.

Snape emerged, wordlessly extended a twisted lump of gold that might have once been a goblet, took two steps, and crumpled. Hermione's hands flashed upward to catch his shoulders before his torso hit the floor, and she gently lowered him the rest of the way to the ground, placing his head gently in her lap, her wand hastily running the basic diagnostic spells they had all learned months ago.

Ron swallowed hard as her chin jerked up, heart in her expressive dark eyes, pleading with Harry before she could form the words.

"I've already called them," Harry assured her swiftly. "They should be here any minute."

Hermione gave him a slight sigh of relief, a swift twitch of her lips that might have been a smile, and instantly turned her attention back to the man on the floor, brushing his straggly hair, slick with sweat, dirt and a touch of blood away from his face in small, infinitely careful movements. Her would-be boyfriend was forcibly reminded of his mother hovering over his father in St. Mungo's after Nagini's attack – the same, hesitant motions – simultaneously confident and fearful – expressed by both women.

With a sharp gasp that rasped painfully in the older wizard's throat, the black eyes snapped open. There was no confusion there, but as the usually cold, aloof orbs focused on his best friend, catching her concerned brown, another, previously unseen, emotion darkened them. Ron felt his gorge rise in his throat, choking off air, almost strangling him as more feelings than he knew he could feel stormed his senses as he understood the tenor of their shared gaze.

Snape's usually empty obsidian eyes sparkled with a look comprised of faint worship, intense gratitude and a bittersweet, shared pain. A touch of longing shadowed it as Hermione met her professor's eyes, mutual affection flowing freely between them, uninhibited by the presence of others, by the pain he was feeling. It told of complete vulnerability and total trust. It was a look reserved for one person, the kind of glance that narrows even the crowds of Trafalgar Square to the connection between two souls.

His mouth moved, as if he were going to speak-

"Where is he?" demanded a no-nonsense female voice from the door, and the starched white uniform of the school's nurse swept over, commanding the attention of the two on the carpet and severing their connection. Hermione stood as rapidly as she could, deferring to the medi-witch's expertise as the boys turned their full efforts on the Horcrux still partially melded onto Snape's scorched left fingers, encasing part of his hand in molten gold.

But even as they had brought their learning to bear on prizing it off their professor's hand, Ron could not shake the image, could not still the too-quick pumping of his blood, could not banish his stomach's writhing in betrayal and heartbreak.

888

_August, 2052_

"How often does she come here?" Harry asked quietly, stopping next to Ron, observing the privacy of the moment in the relaxed line of Hermione's body and willing to grant her space for a few more minutes.

"Twice a year," Ron said, and knew his voice was rough with remembrance. Harry shot him a penetrating glance and couldn't help the next question that tumbled past his lips, his lifetime of training as an investigator too strong to override.

"That's kind of often, don't you think?" he asked casually.

No response.

"She was rather devoted to him that last year, when we only lived at Hogwarts part-time." He had expected that this, too, would earn him no reply, but to Harry's surprise, he heard a pained exhale and Ron's equally hurt whisper.

"Yes, she was."

Guilt assailed the one-time hero as all the myriad implications of his statement crashed through his mind, confirmed by the unshed tears glossed Ron's bright blue eyes. Of all the times for his damned curiosity to get the better of him. Ron clearly knew and just as plainly had elected not to tell him about it, whatever _it _was – and the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice suddenly had no desire to fill in the details of the picture he had unexpectedly painted.

"Ron, I'm-"

"Don't," Ron said, and although the water still stood in his eyelids, his voice was steady. "I haven't spent the last fifty years being sorry for myself and I am _not_ going to start now."

888

_May, 1998_

"Ron!" Harry tore into the library, skidded to a halt and grabbed the youngest Weasley boy's arm, green eyes wide with panic as he thrust his silvery Invisibility Cloak into his best friend's hands. Ron stared at him, nonplussed.

"Harry, what...?"

"Kingsley just sent word through McGonagall. They Death Eaters have attacked the Ministry! Find Hermione and get the DA together, then go through the Floo in Snape's office. Kingsley says the Auror's office has a direct connection and Tonks is standing guard, waiting for the Order."

Ron stared at his friend, dread settling like a lump in his stomach. They had not made provisions for being separated during what would, hopefully, be the decisive battle of the war. "Harry...Ravenclaw's diadem..."

"I know," Harry curled his fists in displeasure, the agony of decision-making shining in his eyes. "You know I don't want to abandon you, but we can't finish this battle without destroying every Horcrux. Nagini will be at the battle, and so will Voldemort. Take everyone with you to defend the Ministry. Tell Luna to meet me at the entrance to her common room – I think I can work with her to get it, since she's a Ravenclaw, and then we'll both be coming as soon as possible." His face hardened, and for an instant, Ron saw the face of their Potions professor appear on Harry's youthful features – a mask of rigidly set lines telling of duties to be done, eyes lit with the steady fires of service and determination.

"Leave Voldemort to me. Tell everyone that. He'll probably hang back until I show up anyway, but tell people _not_ to go looking for him. Our wands match cores – it will be safest if the only person he duels is me. I can turn his magic back on him."

"All right. Anything else?"

"Take care of yourself. And Hermione. And...Ginny." Harry swallowed hard. "There's no Felix this time."

Ron seized his arm, and looked into the too-old eyes of the boy who had been the best friend he'd ever had. He made himself say the words he could only hope to believe. "We are going to win, Harry. This is the Auror's home turf – we hold the high ground. I'll see you at the Ministry. Good luck."

"You too."

And then Ron was running himself, already knowing where Hermione would be, where Hermione spent much of her time whether researching or brewing...

His feet scrambled for purchase as they nearly slipped against the stone outside Snape's dungeon classroom, the area in front of the door worn smooth by a millenia's use. He prepared himself to barge through the solid oak when the desperation in Hermione's voice stopped him, and instead, his fingers automatically tugged the cloak over his head as he peered through the sliver of open door.

"But he knows you're a traitor. If you go-"

"I am in precisely the same amount of danger as any member of the Order or the Auror Core," Snape replied wearily. "And in considerably less than a few others – like Potter."

"Untrue, and we both know it," she countered, her worry plain. "Professor – as a traitor, you are right after Harry on the list of people Voldemort wants disposed of. And Harry still has Ravenclaw's diadem to destroy here before he can go to the Ministry. _You_ will be the prime target."

"All the more reason for me to be there." Again, Ron found himself struck by the supple dexterity of his teacher's voice. Though in class it remained within the same range of indifference to viciousness that it had always carried, the eloquent expressiveness when he spoke to Hermione was truly impressive, and underscored more deeply than any physical gift could how much he cared for her. "We will need to delay. Potter's wand is connected directly to the Dark Lord's. If my former master can be prevented from entering the battle – for instance, hunting me through the bowels of the Ministry – much less damage will be done while we wait."

"No! That's-"

"Necessary, Miss Granger. In war, one makes sacrifices." And Ron could vividly hear his twelve-year-old voice snapping at a tearful Hermione, _"That's chess."_ "Potter has made his, Albus, his, and you, yours. I must make mine."

Ron could see the slump of her shoulders through the crack, and watched as Snape reached over to lift his chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You have already given so much," she whispered brokenly, and Ron could see her cracking heart written on the features he loved so. "Promise me I will see you again."

The bitter smile on his face spoke of a vow he wished he could have given, but that all the gold in Gringotts could not induce him to lie to her. Sweetness grazed the black eyes as they drank in her face, now cupped in both of his hands, tension singing in the gap between their mouths.

But then he was stepping away, the bone-white mask he had not worn for a year clutched in his fingers. "You, too, will be a much sought-after prize. I, at least, have this to buy me time," he told her. "No displays of foolishness," he whispered.

And then he disappeared into his office, leaving her to stand, posture slack, the yearning on her face both wonderful and terrible to behold.

Ron sagged against the wall, fighting the urge to vomit even as he knew tears were coursing down his invisible face. He had tried so hard to deny it...

His Hermione, his beautiful, intelligent, loyal, courageous Hermione, was undeniably and deeply in love with the ex-Death Eater.

888

_August, 2052_

Snape had perished in the battle, slain by Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries after leading the Dark Lord a chase that lasted nearly two hours through its extended passageways. By the time the self-styled lord had emerged, Harry Potter had incinerated the diadem Horcrux and arrived at the government building-turned-bloodbath, Neville Longbottom had taken Godric Gryffindor's impressive sword to Nagini, and Voldemort had found his once-formidable forces in significant disarray. Within the hour it had been over – yet another rebounded _Avada__Kedavra_had this time succeeded in completely destroying the wizard who had been a bane on the wizarding world for more than two decades.

Their teacher had been buried with two of his colleagues – Viviane Vector and Madam Hooch – and all three had been posthumously awarded an Order of Merlin, First Class. Hermione had not wept at the funerals, but gone through all of them with the pale grief of a young widow, her sorrow too deep to be released with tears.

Other than the necessary statements for the press, and the minimal small talk required with her friends, she had not spoken for six months after the war ended, and her academics had gone untouched. Eventually, Minerva McGonagall coaxed her out of her isolation with the offer of an apprenticeship in Transfiguration, and by the time the first-year anniversary arrived, Ron had been delighted to be re-admitted to his friend's confidences and welcome in her life.

And so he had stayed. Stayed to be graced with long years of laughter and teasing, of lightheartedness, constant support, and, of course, the peppering of facts and people that were a side benefit of her never-ending quest for knowledge. A permanent part of her world, immovable as the foundations of the castle in front of them.

Hermione was rising gracefully to her feet, the irritations of older bones and joints not yet making their appearance in his wife's movements. Her hands went automatically to re-plait her tangled hair, and Ron could almost see her putting away the girl she had been with endless hopes, plans and soaring passions, easily returning to her lived-in persona as her fingers nimbly tamed the mane. His Hermione. A woman with children and grandchildren, who had lived some dreams and cast others aside, whose inextinguishable fire had once again been trained on the world of her books.

She had clearly seen her two oldest friends, and she crossed the lawn quickly, black robes pulled behind her by the stiff breeze now blowing over the lake.

"I thought you two would be inside by now," she said quietly, smiling up at the two men as she slipped her arm through her husband's, any hint of the emotions that might have flooded her while in front of her professor's grave consigned to the recesses of her heart. "What with all the food..."

"And the press," Harry added, his 'wistful' voice strongly sarcastic.

She laughed cheerfully. "You could avoid them anytime, Harry. Just sic an over-enthusiastic trainee on them. But...thank you for waiting for me," she added in a more subdued voice.

Ron leaned over and pressed his mouth to the top of her head as the three started back towards the castle, replaying a scene they had repeated many, many times since they had befriended Hagrid at the ages of eleven.

"Always, love. Always."

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A/N: As usual, all feedback is appreciated – for those who wish to leave flames or touch critiques, my only request is that you sign them so that I might have a fair shot of defending myself – I promise not to flame in return!

lipasnape: I hope this section didn't disappoint with Snape's death!

Maridee: Thank you for the comment about Ron – he's gets knocked around a fair bit in this 'ship, and it was nice to play with him as a real human being.

DanniV: Thank you – I enjoyed writing Ron as a narrator. An unlikely one, perhaps, but grimly fascinated nevertheless.

Maddie50: Ah, the things we do for love...in spite of the fact that Hermione was not "in love" with Ron in the same way that she was with Snape, she still did love him and they had a good marriage – they were compatible, even if they didn't share a great deal of passion. And thank you for the line about character relationships, the slow development is the method I prefer, in spite of how I have written Forbidden Fruit. I'm glad that it works for you here!

Mother of Tears: Thank you. I struggled with that scene precisely because I think simplicity was the key. I'm gratified to know that it worked for you.

BDSanta2001: Thanks for reading and reviewing!

felinegirl121: Aha! Thank you for the grammar nitpicking, this story had no beta, so it's just me and my prejudiced pair of eyes scanning for errors. I am glad to be increasing your respect, albeit minutely, for the HG-SS 'ship.

Beth5572: Thank you, as always, for reading!

BuckNC: An RW-HG fan?? I think I can honestly say I don't think I've ever had one comment on my pieces, so, hmmm...I am glad you enjoy the writing, although you clearly have issues with my portrayal of the characters, which is, I grant you, totally fair. As for Ron's lack of self-respect and jealousy: as you have pointed out, he has had 50 years to get over it, and although this story focuses on his observations of Snape and Hermione as 7th years, those intervening years have been good for them. Perhaps not an entirely reasonable explanation, but it's what I was thinking when I wrote it. As for Snape's character as a human being – keep in mind that we are seeing only what Ron sees. I deliberately decided to forgo any interactions between them that he does not witness, which means that we are only seeing the culmination of their time together, not many of the steps in Snape and Hermione's growing attraction. As for time healing all wounds – I agree 100. But I can't have a story if she's not still carrying a torch for him, and so in this particular version of Hermione, she is. And as for the last point, Hermione's faults: again, we see her through Ron, who loves her dearly, and we see only those moments that really stand out for him, because these are memories. I agree with your assessment of her character, but I have chosen not to use that here. Sorry – that was a rather long reply, but you raised good points and while I don't think this will change your mind about the story, I wanted to respond with my thought process while writing. Thank you for leaving me such an honest review!


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